


Through a Glass, Darkly

by sospes



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, First Time, Honeytrap, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 11:43:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4704830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sospes/pseuds/sospes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya watches Solo work and sees something he was never supposed to see. And then that work follows them all home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The warning is for the intrinsically dub-conny nature of the trope, not (yet!) for anything more serious.

Gaby glides to a rest against the bar next to Illya. She doesn’t look at him, doesn’t pay him any attention whatsoever, just orders another drink then says, as if to herself, “He looks like you.”

Illya cradles the untouched glass of vodka in his hand, keeps on studying the chandeliers, doesn’t look at Gaby. “He does not,” he answers. 

The bartender hands Gaby her drink, and she accepts it with a smile, turns around and leans against the bar. She studies the room, says, “Yes, he does. Just because he’s an arms dealer doesn’t mean he can’t look like you.”

Illya’s nose wrinkles. “I do not appreciate the comparison.”

Gaby takes a sip. “Of course you don’t,” she says. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

Illya forces himself not to roll his eyes. There are more important things going on right now than the fact that their mark looks vaguely— _vaguely!_ —like him, because there are tensions in this room that Illya hasn’t had the time to decipher, alliances which can shift and change in a second, without a moment’s warning. This is danger, this is _peril_. He has to pay attention. 

“Solo agrees with me,” Gaby says, just a lilt of amusement in her voice. “Says that Alverez is the spitting image of you, only less likely to take his head off with some kind of deadly weapon.” 

Illya snorts at that. “In that, he is right,” he says, then shakes himself, says, “And just because someone is tall and blond does not mean that he looks like me.”

Gaby drinks again, finishes her glass, chinks it down on the bar and offers the bartender one of her sultriest smiles. “No,” she says to the room at large. “No, it doesn’t. But Alverez? Eyes, nose, chin, teeth. He could be your brother, Illya.”

“I have no brother.”

Illya’s not looking, but he can practically hear Gaby rolling her eyes at his typically over-literal stance. “Enjoy your surveillance,” she says, and slides away from the bar as gently as she came. 

“I will,” Illya says stubbornly to her retreating back, and takes another sip of his drink.

Marco Alverez is a very bad man. Arms trafficking, people trafficking, ties to the remnants of the Vinciguerra estate and therefore Neo-Nazism. He’s currently taking a break in a noisy corner of Berlin with his entourage, pressing the flesh in one of the city’s chicest bars, which is where the three of them are on the prowl. Waverly has good intel that Alverez’ black book is tucked away in the safe in his hotel room, the book of all his contacts—in code, of course, but U.N.C.L.E. has people who can deal with that—and that’s what they’ve been tasked to retrieve. 

‘They’ means ‘Solo.’ And ‘retrieve’ means ‘seduce Alverez’ girl-of-the-moment, get her back to their shared room while Alverez is occupied, and crack the safe’. 

It’s not a hugely complex plan. Solo had told them as such repeatedly, told them that this was the kind of thing he used to do all the time, that he doesn’t need backup. Illya had told _him_ that that was the kind of foolish thinking that had probably allowed the CIA to catch him in the first place, and that it was not the Russian way to allow a partner to go into the field without appropriate precautions in place. Solo had just smirked and said, “Partner, Peril? Do you really care about me that much?” 

Across the room from Illya’s seat at the bar, Solo is currently tucked away in a booth with said girl-of-the-moment, one hand resting lightly on her waist, the other brushing hair away from the red slick of her lipstick. Alverez is two booths away with a ring of what Illya is euphemistically thinking of as ‘business partners’, so it looks like everything is going to plan – but that doesn’t mean that Illya is about to relax. No, he’s aware that this point, this ease, this smooth sailing, this is when it’s easiest for them to lose everything. 

“ _Illya._ ” Gaby’s voice crackles in his earpiece. “ _Alverez is moving._ ”

Case in point. 

Solo’s not wearing an earpiece, of course, because that would be a fairly obvious sign to the mark that he’s exactly that. What that means, though, is that there’s nothing Illya can do but watch, because Alverez is only going to be in this city for a few days so their window of opportunity is so slim. Tonight has to be the night, and so Illya grits his teeth, says, “Hold your position.”

“ _But Solo—_ ”

“Can deal with it,” Illya interrupts, firmly but gently. “He has spent a long time doing this kind of thing, Gaby. He will be fine.” 

Gaby’s quiet for a long moment, and then she says, “ _Understood._ ”

What Illya doesn’t say, of course, is that a red-blooded Italian like Alverez isn’t likely to take too kindly to some cocky American trying to steal his woman. He sits forward on his barstool, glass gripped so tight in his hand he’s a hairsbreadth away from breaking it, and watches as Alverez paces across the club, cigarette dangling from his fingers, because as much as Solo might be a cocky American with little-to-no understanding of true statecraft, over the past few months he’s somehow become _Illya’s_ cocky American. 

Illya’s been trying not to think about the implications of that. 

On the other side of the club, Alverez rounds the corner of Solo’s booth and takes a seat opposite his woman and Illya’s partner. It’s too far away for Illya to hear what’s going on—Gaby’s a little closer so perhaps she might catch something, but Illya isn’t about to break radio silence and distract her to inquire—so he just watches, reads body language and facial expression. 

Solo isn’t surprised. And Alverez isn’t angry. 

Something stirs in Illya’s gut, something uneasy and restless. Alverez has a reputation, a dangerous reputation, one that stresses impulsiveness and a quick temper above everything else – so why is he currently _smiling_ at Solo? The thought that flickers through Illya’s head is that their cover has been blown, that Alverez is merely biding his time until he can get Solo outside for a proper messy execution, but that doesn’t fit with his profile, either. A few years ago in Zurich, Alverez was in the middle of one of the city’s most expensive restaurants when he spotted an MI6 tail. He walked up to the man, stabbed him in the eye with a steak knife, and then proceeded to beat the man to death while patrons screamed and the maître d’ was efficiently ‘persuaded’ by his dinner partners to not call the police. No, if Alverez knew Solo’s true identity, he’d already be dead. 

So why is he still smiling? 

Alverez’s girl says something, gesturing between the two men: Illya’s guessing that’s an introduction. Introduction is good. Introduction is decidedly unviolent, and he sees Solo smile, say something in return with a quirk of his eyebrow. Alverez is still smiling, but it’s changed, now, morphed into something that Illya doesn’t entirely understand. Almost – predatory? Illya doesn’t like how that smile looks on a face that looks remarkably similar to his own—

Not that Alverez looks like him. No, because that would mean that he agrees with Gaby and Solo’s gossip, and that would _never_ happen.

Alverez is talking now, oiled blond hair gleaming under the club’s lights, and after a few moments he stands, his woman’s hand in his. Solo stands, too, hands tucked in his pockets, and for a moment Illya thinks that’s it, that Alverez’s temper has been grossly overstated, that everything’s been sorted out amicably and that they’re going to have to start the mission again from the top.

But no. Because Alverez slips out of the booth, girl on his arm, and Solo goes with him. 

“ _Illya, they’re leaving!_ ”

“I can see that,” Illya grinds out to Gaby. 

“ _What do we do? Should we go after them?_ ”

Something odd is happening here, something that Illya hasn’t quite figured out yet. Without enough information, following Alverez is risky at best, lethal at worst – and Gaby doesn’t have the skills for that, not yet. “You stay here,” Illya says, firm but not unkind. “You will only distract me. Return to the hotel, report in to Waverly. I will follow them, make sure that Solo is okay.” He pauses, thinks. “He did not give any of the prearranged distress signals, so we must assume that everything is going according to whatever new plan he has come up with.” 

Gaby’s quiet for a moment, then she says, “ _Whatever you think is best._ ”

Illya can hear the resentment there, the resentment at being cast aside, put on the shelf, but there’s no time to deal with that no. The mission comes first, and Illya says, “You were closer to them than me. Did you hear anything?”

“ _Not much,_ ” Gaby answers, brisk and businesslike. “ _Alverez said something to Ottavia about a good choice, which Solo seemed to find very funny. Apart from that, their conversation was too quiet._ ”

A good choice? That makes no sense. Illya frowns, shakes his head. “Alright,” he says. “I will follow them, and I will keep in touch. Stay safe, Gaby.”

“ _You too, Illya._ ” 

Illya stays until he sees Gaby has safely left, then he takes another sip of his drink, leaves it on the counter, and slips out. A quick glance around the street outside turns up no sight of Solo, but Illya isn’t wholly surprised: they knew that Alverez had cars waiting for him outside, and it stands to reason that they left in those cars. No matter. Alverez is at least making a show of keeping a low profile in this city, so the most likely place he’d’ve gone would be to his suite in the Berlin Hilton. 

Illya feels the weight of the gun in its holster under his jacket, feels the press of the knife that’s strapped to his calf. He takes a breath, takes another, then starts his sloping trail through the streets of Berlin. 

Waverly included Alverez’ hotel room in the dossier. Illya has read that dossier a grand total of seven times so of course he remembers the number, and so he doesn’t bother to pause at the Hilton’s reception, just sweeps in and up the stairs like this is where he belongs. He takes note of the security in the main entrance—three bodyguards playing cards in the bar, two more reading some late-night newspapers in the hotel’s customary easy chairs—and he knows they must notice him, too, but in his current jacket, tie, and smart shoes he doesn’t look out of place. He gives them no reason to think him anything other than a late-night patron, and before long he’s outside the penthouse suite, unmolested and unfollowed. 

For a long moment, Illya stands at the penthouse’s door, still and silent, just listening. He doesn’t have to check his scanner to know that Solo’s inside—he can smell the man’s aftershave even out here in the corridor, and, anyway, that particular drawl carries very well from inside the room—but what he doesn’t know is what exactly is going on inside. Negotiations? A friendly drink? Or something more sinister, interrogation and intimidation? Alverez has a rotating coterie of ten guards, after all, and Illya only clocked five downstairs – which, of course, doesn’t exactly _mean_ anything, because even the bodyguards of arms dealers have to sleep sometimes, but nonetheless. 

The icy hand of worry worms its way into Illya’s gut, and he grits his teeth. 

What he should do, he knows, is go to an adjacent room, find the thinnest part of the wall, bore a hole through the brick and mortar with the kit he has in the pocket of his jacket, slot through a microfibre listening wire and eavesdrop that way. That would be safe, that would be logical – but Illya doesn’t move. Gaby’s words keep running through his head— _something about a good choice_ —and there’s a subtext there that he hasn’t quite figured out, a sinister tinge that is eating away at the back of his mind. He dislikes not understanding, he dislikes Solo being in potential danger even more – and there are plenty of logical things he should do right now, plenty of things that are unobtrusive but so _timeconsuming_. 

No, Illya has to know now. 

From inside the suite, there’s a muffled thud and what sounds worryingly close to a grunt of pain. 

Illya’s heart thuds faster in his chest, and he reaches out, tries the doorhandle. It’s locked, of course, but Illya’s picked up a worrying large array of lockpicking tips from Solo over the past couple of months, so he gets the door open in less than a minute. Still far longer than it would have taken Solo himself, of course, but by the sounds of things Solo’s a little busy, and so Illya opens the door, slips inside without a sound, and draws his gun.

The sound’s are louder in here, and Illya follows them from the dimly-lit reception room through to the equally dimly-lit dining room and then towards the half-ajar door to the bedroom, where he can see what looks oddly like the flicker of candlelight. There’s a part of his mind that already knows what’s going on, that figured this out a long time ago, but it’s a part that he’s really not paying that much attention to, because why is Solo’s jacket draped elegantly over the back of one of the dining room chairs? And why do those grunts sound a lot less like pain and a lot more like—?

_Oh._

Illya can see through the gap in the bedroom door, now. The tableau’s still not entirely complete, only a sliver of an image, but Illya gets the picture pretty damn quickly, because Solo is facedown on a desk, _bent over_ a desk, to be more specific. He’s also, as far as Illya can see, naked except for the silk tie which is still knotted around his neck, and the other end of that tie is currently clenched tight in Alverez’s fist. The rest of Alverez is hidden behind the door, out of Illya’s line of sight, but the rhythmic jerks punctuating Solo’s body aren’t exactly subtle – and as Illya watches, momentarily pinned to the spot through sheer _astonishment_ , Alverez hauls back on that tie, pulls Solo’s head backwards, arching his body, tugging his chest off the desk, forcing him to brace himself on his arms. 

Which, of course, is when Solo’s eyes flick open and go straight to Illya. 

For a moment, Solo’s eyes are shot through with confusion and the faintest hint of irritation—Illya can imagine the rebuke he’ll get later: _Peril, do you have to follow me everywhere?_ —but then Alverez must do something particularly extraordinary because those eyes go black, black with lust, black with desire, and Solo _moans_. 

Illya’s pretty sure that his cheeks are so hot he’s at risk of spontaneously combusting. Now that he’s thinking about it, this does explain the lack of bodyguards, because not even crazy, hedonistic, evil arms dealers want their men listening when they pick up a strange young man from a bar and – thoroughly remove him of his chastity. 

Feeling abruptly very, very stupid, Illya holsters his gun, and goes. 

Illya slips back to their hotel with ease, and once he’s gone to his room and shucked his suddenly too-tight jacket and too-tight tie, he goes and finds Gaby. She’s in her room, of course, but despite the fact that the night is dark and thick outside, she answers the door almost the instant he knocks. She glances around him quickly, clearly looking for Solo, then says, “Come in.”

He does, and sits heavily on the sofa.

Gaby gives him a sharply quizzical look, then says, “So? What happened?” 

Illya’s cheeks are on _fire_. “Nothing,” he says, a little too quickly, and then, “Solo was with Alverez in his suite. No sign of Ottavia.”

Gaby’s lips quirk into a moue of concern. “Alverez’ rooms?” she asks. “Is he safe?” 

Illya thinks of the tie around Solo’s neck, about the strain in his arms against the edge of the ornate, expensive desk, about the bare expanse of his skin under the soft, almost romantic lighting in Alverez’ suite. “For now,” he says, “I believe he is, yes.” 

Gaby’s not stupid. She knows there’s something she’s not telling him, and she says “ _Illya._ ” with such force that she makes it perfectly clear that she’s not letting this go until he’s told.

Illya hates this. “It appears,” he says, studiously avoiding eye contact, “that Solo has found a new target for his… affections.” 

Gaby pauses just for a moment, blinks, and then says, “Oh. _Oh_.”

“Quite.”

Illya goes back to his own room in short order. He doesn’t even bother trying to sleep, instead sits on his own sofa and reads the day’s newspaper. After re-reading the same short article three times and each time not taking in a single word, he gives up on that, too, throws the paper on the floor and stares at the painting hanging over the fireplace. He’s not looking at the painting, though, he’s thinking, because he can’t get that image of out his head: Solo’s skin, Solo’s eyes, Solo’s _moan_. It’s too much, too much to think about, so instead Illya thinks about Alverez, about the Italian with Illya’s height and Illya’s face, and about how the awkward curl in his stomach is edging remarkably close to jealousy. 

He’s not jealous. Of course he’s not jealous. 

But that gets him thinking about other things, of course, because if Illya ever _were_ to end up in that particular position with Solo, it would not exactly be difficult to get the upper hand, to tug that tie with just the right amount of force, apply just the right pressure in just the right place, and then Solo would be unconscious, maybe even dead, and there would be nothing to stop him from doing whatever he wanted. Illya’s hands tense as they rest on his thighs, and there’s a sick feeling curling in his gut, now, a feeling that’s not jealous, no, a feeling that’s _fear_ , because he was so distracted, so shocked that he ran, that he ran and left his partner there for someone with Illya’s height and Illya’s muscles to do _anything_ —

There’s a knock at the door. 

Illya’s strung so tight he practically jumps off the sofa. He doesn’t go to the door immediately, doesn’t do anything, really, because his mind is so caught up in images of Solo in various positions, compromising and lethal, that he’s really not thinking straight. Which is a problem in and of itself, and, _oh_ , this mission is turning out to be a lot less straightforward than Illya had hoped.

“Hey, Peril! I know you’re in there. Open the door, won’t you?” 

Solo’s not dead. Illya doesn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. 

Solo comes pushing in the moment Illya opens the door, and he’s wearing significantly more clothes than the last time Illya saw him. He turns on his heel the moment the door’s shut, grins at Illya and produces a pocket book from the inside of his jacket, says, “Mission: accomplished. Black book: retrieved.” He flicks through it, turns it towards Illya so he can see the gibberish scribbled inside. “Can’t make head or tail of it, of course, but I _also_ found this little thing in Alverez’ wallet that I thought might be useful.” From another pocket, he produces a wheel of numbers and letters, all the different levels turning independently to one another. 

This, Illya can deal with. He steps forward, takes the wheel from Solo’s hand, turns it over and studies it. The letters are Roman, Greek, Cyrillic, Arabic; the numbers are abstract, imaginary, and real. It’s a whole mess of different symbols and meanings, and Illya glances up at Solo, says, “A codebreaker?” 

Solo shrugs. “Figured it was worth a shot,” he says.

Illya grunts, hands the wheel back. Business. This is business. He can do business. 

“Speaking of shots,” Solo says, and flashes Illya that particular grin he only brings out when he knows that he’s done something _particularly_ idiotic. “We should probably leave.”

Illya raises an eyebrow. “Leave?”

“Leave,” Solo repeats. “I left Alverez happily snoring away, but I _may_ have run into Ottavia and one of the bodyguards on the way out, and I _may_ have had to leave them unconscious in a cupboard. And I’m pretty sure I heard shouts when I was heading down the street. And I think I spotted a tail on the way here…” He trails off, shrugs, smiles. 

A muscle is jumping in Illya’s jaw. “You,” he says, “are an awful spy.” 

Solo waves the black book. “But a fantastic thief,” he says. “You want to pack while I go get Gaby?”

“Yes. Meet at the hotel’s staff entrance?”

Solo nods. “Will do, Peril.” He tucks the book and the wheel back into his inner pocket, then heads for the door. Illya’s already thinking about possible escape routes and the safest way to get the three of them to their emergency extraction point even as he’s starting to stuff his possessions inside his case—he’s going to have to leave the bugs in Gaby and Solo’s rooms, which is a shame but he can always make more—but then he hears, “Peril?”

Illya glances up. “Cowboy?”

Solo’s standing still at the door, one hand on the doorhandle, the other hung loose at his side. He’s angled half towards Illya, half towards the exit, and when he speaks, his voice is oddly tentative. “Are we going to have a problem?” he asks.

Illya blinks. “We already have a problem,” he says bluntly. “You are incapable of a subtle exit.”

Solo doesn’t laugh. “Not what I meant,” he says. “What you saw in Alverez’ rooms. What I did with him. Is that going to be a problem for you?” 

Illya understands. He has seen Solo sleep with marks before, of course, and there was that one unfortunate incident in Tokyo where Solo managed to forget which was his room and accidentally brought a girl back to _Illya’s_ room, but this is different. This isn’t Victoria Vinciguerra, this is Marco Alverez. This is a _man_ , a man who looks far too similar to Illya for Illya’s liking, and Illya still hasn’t quite figured all of _that_ out himself. 

But Solo’s waiting, and, for everything else that Solo is, he is Illya’s partner. 

Illya shakes his head. “No problem, Solo,” he says. “Not unless you get us all killed.”

Solo smiles at the joke, but his eyes are cold. “Okay,” he says, and Illya can tell that he doesn’t believe a word. “Downstairs in five minutes.”

Something twists in Illya’s gut, something that’s cold and bitter, jealous and guilty, and he abruptly wonders if he’s just managed to ruin everything. They’ve only been working together a few months, so their dynamic is still volatile, still subject to flux and change, and all he can do as Solo opens the door and slips out is says, hoarse and useless, “I will find a car.” 

Solo goes without a word. 

Illya sits on the sofa and doesn’t know what to do.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, miscalculated the number of chapters. I swear, there will only be three! 
> 
> The warning is relevant to this chapter, too, although still obliquely.

The retreat from Berlin goes without a hitch. 

Illya hotwires a car, Gaby drives them to the extraction point at her usual breakneck speed, and Solo spends the entire journey wisecracking. It’s like nothing has changed, nothing is different, and for a second Illya lets himself relax back against the cracked leather seats. Maybe nothing will come of this after all.

That particular fantasy is quickly scrapped when their plane is in the air and Solo takes one look at Illya, doesn’t smile, and goes and falls asleep at the other end of the cabin. 

Gaby sits next to Illya, tugs at a loose thread in the hem of her skirt. “I talked to the pilot,” she says. “He had a message from Waverly. We’re going to stop off in London, drop the black book and the wheel off with MI6, then we’ll be taken to a safehouse.”

Illya stirs. “Safehouse?”

“A secluded cabin in the Alps,” Gaby supplies. 

Illya almost rolls his eyes. “I know what a safehouse is,” he says gently. “Why are we being sent to a safehouse?”

Gaby’s lips twist in what Illya figures is probably embarrassment. “Oh. Sorry.” She clears her throat, looks away. “Because apparently whatever Solo did has really pissed off Alverez. Half of his European operatives have been directed to find us – or, at least, to find Solo. Waverly’s not sure if he has our faces or not, but he figures it’s better safe than sorry.”

Illya nods. “It is the British way.”

Gaby snorts, but doesn’t elaborate. She shucks off her jacket, drapes it over herself, sinks down in her seat. “It’s been a long night,” she says. “I’m going to try to sleep. Wake me when we touch down in London?”

“Of course.”

Gaby leans her head against his shoulder and closes her eyes. The touch is intimate and gentle, but not flirtatious, not seductive. It’s the comfort of a friend, of a partner. Illya’s not sure when one changed into the other, when the spark faded, when the fire burnt too low for him to feel it anymore, but now he thinks about Solo and he’s not sure he minds so much. He lets Gaby sleep on his shoulder, listens to the whisper of her breathing, watches the twitch of her hands, and doesn’t notice when Solo stirs at the other end of the cabin, when he stirs and looks up and sees the two of them together. 

Something cold drops across Solo’s expression, but Illya doesn’t see. Solo rubs at the bruises on his throat, and goes back to sleep. 

The drop-off at London goes smoothly, and Illya doesn’t even have to get off the plane before they’re on their way to a tiny airfield in the heart of the Swiss Alps. The safehouse is a good hour’s hike away through the snow, and for that hour Solo walks with Gaby, chattering and singing and laughing, and Illya stalks sullenly behind them, both his and Gaby’s bags on his back and a borrowed rifle cradled in his arms. 

Solo doesn’t look at him for the whole damn hike. 

The safehouse is small and comfortably appointed, a cabin with log walls, thick carpets and an enormous fireplace. There are paintings hung on the walls, Alpine summerscapes, pencil drawings of the mountainous skyline, and in one of the four bedrooms there’s a stuffed bear’s head. That’s the room that Gaby chooses, oddly enough, muttering something about it making her feel safe, and she wrangles her bag away from Illya and disappears to change. 

Which leaves Illya alone with Solo in the main room. 

Solo looks at him for the first time since they left Berlin, and smiles a lopsided smile that’s empty of anything that might even edge close to happiness. “Downtime,” he drawls. “Fantastic.”

Illya fights the urge to shift from foot to foot. He is a Russian spy, not an awkward virgin. “It will be good for us,” he says. “Good for team morale.”

Solo’s lips twist. “Yeah,” he says. “Team morale.” He turns on his heel, snow still dropping off his heels, and heads into the bedroom opposite Gaby’s. 

Illya stands awkwardly in the middle of the main room, facing the fireplace, and tries not to kick himself. 

The first day is just fantastic. 

Illya accidentally sleeps in, which he’s blaming on the fact that he probably hasn’t slept in over forty-eight hours. When he wakes, there’s a fire burning in the fireplace and the remnants of eggs for breakfast in the fridge, but there’s no sign of either of his two partners. The logical part of his mind informs him that there’s no need to panic, because this is called a _safe_ house for a reason so there’s no possible way anybody could have found them in that short a time, and, anyway, if someone had, surely they would have taken all of them rather than just the two? Which means that they’re fine, they’re both fine. However, the longer Illya prowls around the cabin and finds nothing there but a cold fire and colder eggs, the longer his logical brain starts to be overruled by his fears. What if they’re dead? What if they went out for a walk and got caught? Or caused an avalanche, because Illya’s pretty sure that Solo can cause natural disasters on cue? 

Illya’s hands are starting to twitch when the front door bursts open, and it’s only the fact that Illya left his gun in his bedroom that gets in the way of him shooting them both.

As it is, Solo takes one look at his strangled expression and smiles a remarkably bitter smile. 

He doesn’t speak, though, which Illya reckons is probably best for them all right about now. Instead Gaby says, “Illya! You’re awake. We thought it was best to let you sleep.”

“Where,” Illya grinds out, “have you been?”

“Solo took me shooting,” Gaby says, and her cheeks are bright red from the cold. “Says I need to improve my aim.”

Solo snorts. “After Istanbul?” he asks. “Yeah, I’d say you need some practise. But that’s what downtime’s for. Don’t you agree, Peril?” 

Illya nearly jumps at the direct address. “I suppose,” is all he can think to say, and something flickers in Solo’s eyes when he does, something bitter and almost angry. 

Solo doesn’t say anything, though, just looks to Gaby and says, “Hungry? I think it’s almost lunchtime.” 

Gaby smiles back at him. “I could eat,” she answers. 

“I’ll cook,” Solo says.

Gaby’s smile flickers wider. “I know you will,” she says. 

Solo goes to cook, Gaby goes to change, and, after a moment’s awkward silence, Illya goes to take a much needed shower. 

Lunch is nothing special, just gammon and eggs, because—as Solo is quick to complain—the fridge isn’t exactly well stocked. The three of them eat at the same small table, bumping elbows and occasionally sharing cutlery, and Illya hunches his knees up underneath to avoid kicking Solo. Solo doesn’t seem to notice, just keeps on flirting with Gaby, who is well aware of what he’s doing and just gives him snippy deadpan responses. 

Illya barely says a word.

After they’re done and Gaby and Solo have finished arguing over who has to do the washing up—Illya does it, in the end, while they’re on their fourth round of _I cooked so you clean! No one asked you to cook!_ —Solo says, “I spotted a village down in the next valley. I’m going to go see if they have anything more sophisticated than eggs and meat. Anyone want to come?” 

Illya can feel Solo’s gaze on him, heavy and meaningful, and there’s a part of him that wonders if this is an olive branch, if this is a way out of this net of awkwardness and silence that they’ve somehow got caught in – but the rest of him stays silent. He can’t. 

“No,” Gaby says. “I don’t fancy more snow down the back of my shirt.”

Solo’s gaze flickers away to her, and he acts offended. “That was once!”

Gaby doesn’t answer, just rolls her eyes and slopes away to her room. 

Illya and Solo sit opposite each other for a long moment, neither speaking, until Illya can’t stand the silence anymore. He shifts, digs his hands deep into his pockets, says, “Solo—”

Solo abruptly gets to his feet, the scrape of chairlegs against carpet effectively silencing Illya. “We should probably keep a watch tonight,” he says, all business, all efficiency. “I stayed up last night, walked the perimeter, checked out some of the local access routes, but that was because I got a decent few hours sleep on the way here. We should probably do full shifts tonight.”

This is an olive branch that Illya can grasp. “Yes,” he says. “I will mention it to Gaby. I will take the first watch.”

Solo nods, holds Illya’s gaze for a brief second, then leaves. 

Illya goes out, walks the perimeter, checks out some of the local access routes, and when he gets back Gaby is laid out on the sofa in front of a roaring fire. The warmth is welcome after the chill of early winter outside, so he crouches in front of the blaze, tugs off his gloves, stretches out his fingers and watches the wood burn.

“What’s wrong with you and Solo?” 

Straight to the point. Trust the chop shop girl to not mess around. 

Illya doesn’t look at her. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit.” He hears her move again, and suddenly she’s next to him, crosslegged on the carpet, and her fingers rest in the crook of his elbow. “Illya,” she says. “Come on, talk to me.”

Illya wants to. Gaby is warm and welcoming and comforting, and over these past few months they’ve grown closer than he ever thought they could, so he wants to share with her, wants to spill his guts and hold her hand – but he can’t. He can’t talk about what he’s feeling because he doesn’t _understand_ what he’s feeling, and he looks at her, offers her a wan smile, says, “Everything will be fine, Gaby. You do not need to worry.”

She looks distinctly unimpressed. “You’ve barely spoken a word to each other since Berlin,” she says. “I need to know why.”

“You do not.”

“I _do_!” Her tone is insistent, urgent, and something catches in Illya’s throat. She’s his partner, too, and she says, “We work together, and I trust you both with my life. Right now, though, I don’t trust you with each other’s lives, and that’s a problem.” She studies him for a moment, the firelight glinting through her hair, and finally she says, “I don’t need you to talk to me, Illya. Whatever this is, I need you to talk to _him_.” 

Illya’s starting to get the feeling that talking isn’t what he needs to do – isn’t what he _wants_ to do, and, well, that just makes everything that much worse. Solo would laugh in his face if he admitted as much, but he can’t tell Gaby that, _won’t_ tell Gaby that. “I will sort it out,” he says, ignoring the fact that it’s getting harder and harder to suppress his accent. “It will be fine.” 

Gaby’s silence is sceptical at best. Her fingers squeeze the crook of his elbow, and she says, “Okay.” 

They spend the afternoon in a silence that’s almost companionable, Gaby reading on the sofa, Illya sorting through the safehouse’s weapons locker and cleaning everything until it gleams in the firelight. Later on, Gaby disappears to her room and Illya’s left alone, tending the fire and not thinking about the tension thick in the air. 

Solo gets back just as the sun is setting with a rucksack full of winter vegetables, exquisite cuts of meat, and some expensive-looking balsamic vinegar. He cooks for them all while maintaining a steady stream of one-sided conversation and complaining about the distinct lack of aprons in U.N.C.L.E. safehouses, and, even if Illya would never admit it, the resulting meal is fantastic. Illya eats so much he’s pretty sure his stomach has doubled in size by the end, and he never notices how Solo watches him, watches every mouthful, every quorl of food-induced joy on his face, how Solo watches him with a twist to his lips that might almost speak of loss. 

Gaby washes up this time with Solo drying as she goes along. Illya goes to his room, pulls on boots and the thickest jacket he owns, retrieves his scarf, hat and gloves from the radiator, then clips his pistol into its holster, straps a knife to his thigh, and slings a rifle he borrowed from the safehouse’s weapons stash over his shoulder. His partners are finished by the time he steps back out into the main room, and he and says, “I’ll be back at around midnight.”

Gaby nods, already absorbed in her book. Solo looks up at him from his position sprawled out by the fire, and says, “Stay safe, Peril. Wake me up when you get back, I’ll go out second.” 

Something twists in Illya’s throat, and he almost manages to smile. “Of course, Cowboy.”

The Alpine air is bitterly cold outside, but it’s nothing compared to Siberia in winter so Illya barely even notices. He prowls around the safehouse’s perimeter for a good half an hour, checking the tripwires and makeshift alarms he spent the afternoon setting up, then finds a good vantage point on a rocky outcrop half a mile away and watches the darkened valleys. There’s a splash of light from the village Solo visited this afternoon and a whisper from between the trees from the cabin’s windows, but apart from that there’s nothing there but Illya and the stars.

He looks up at the stars, at Orion’s belt and the expanse of the Plough, and thinks about Solo. 

This whole thing would be much less complicated if Alverez didn’t look so much like him.

At half past eleven, Illya leaves his outcrop and delves back into the forest. He moves silently through the snow, leaving the trees undisturbed, sticking to solid ground rather than shifting white as much as he can, covering his tracks when he can’t, and it takes him twenty minutes to get back to the cabin on the same winding, circuitous route he took in the first place. None of his alarms have been triggered, none of his tripwires have been tripped, so he slinks back to the cabin’s door, ready to try to sleep. 

“Solo, you can’t seriously think that!” 

Illya freezes on the doorstep. There’s indignation in Gaby’s voice, _righteous_ indignation, and he knows it’s not the best course of action to eavesdrop but he can’t quite bring himself to open the door. 

Solo’s tone is bitter. “Why not?” he asks. “As far as I’m aware, the Russians aren’t exactly big fans of – that kind of thing.” The pause is barely there, but Illya notices. Of course he notices, and he’s not stupid, either. He knows what they’re talking about. How could he not? 

The rifle is heavy over his shoulder. 

“He’s not exactly your typical Russian,” Gaby says. “I would have thought you’d have noticed that by now.”

“I’d be dead if he were,” Solo says, honest and remarkably open. “I know that. But spying is one thing. This? Something else entirely.” 

“I wouldn’t be so quick to make assumptions like that.” 

Illya hears Solo snort, and it’s almost affectionate. “It’s not an assumption,” he says. “It’s a reasonable guess. I have… experience with this kind of reaction.”

“Experience?”

Solo pauses for a second. “Sanders,” he says, finally. “My CIA handler. When he found out I was willing to do that kind of work, he made it perfectly clear what he thought of me. ‘Fag’, ‘queer’. That kind of thing. Not exactly original.”

“Pig.”

“I don’t disagree,” Solo says, with just a lick of amusement. “But the point is that the intelligence community might be willing to sanction a lot of things to get the job done, but that doesn’t mean that they _accept_ them all. I think that Peril might be open to sanctioning but not so much ready for acceptance.” He pauses again, and when he speaks, his tone is bitter. “Especially if he knows how I’d _much_ prefer him to Alverez.” 

Illya goes stock still on the porch, muscles seized, tongue frozen – and it’s not because of what Solo just said. 

Somewhere off in the snow, there’s a bell ringing, high and sweet. It’s silenced in a heartbeat, rushed hands grabbing it down from the treetops, but Illya knows that bell because Illya left it in the trees, left it attached to a tripwire only a mile or so from the cabin – and now that he’s looking, now that he’s intent on the world around him rather than the conversation he shouldn’t be listening to from behind the door, he can see lights through the trees. 

Illya’s heart thuds loud in his ears. 

He slips back in through the doorway, rifle in his hands, and closes the door behind him as silently as he can manage. He tracks snow across the carpet but really doesn’t care, and he turns, quick as a shadow, presses his finger to his lips. “Kill the lights.” 

Solo’s in action before he’s finished speaking, flicking off the lights and stamping out the flicker of the fire. “Alverez?” he asks, low and tight.

“Unclear,” Illya answers. 

“Friendly?”

“Unlikely. They would have called ahead.”

A muscle jumps in Solo’s jaw. “How did they find us?” 

“Followed the car in Berlin,” Illya surmises. “Saw the plan. Found the manifest. Followed our trail up—”

“Does it matter?” Gaby hisses sharply. “What do we do?”

Solo’s hands are loose at his sides. “You two go,” he says. “If it’s Alverez, he only knows about me. If it’s not Alverez, then I’ll slow them down enough to give you a shot at escape.”

“ _No_ ,” Gaby snaps, at the same time as Illya says, “Incorrect. If it is Alverez and he followed us to the airfield, he will know about all three of us. If it is not Alverez, then we stand a better chance together than apart.” 

Something flashes in Solo’s eyes, something dark and bitter and _sad_. “Why, Peril,” he says, voice tight but still trying for mirth, “it’s almost like you care.”

Illya should ignore that. Illya should ignore that and move on and fortify this place because it’s the best chance they’ve got at surviving, but he _can’t_ ignore that, not anymore. “More than you know, Cowboy,” he says, quieter than he means to. There’s a flash of shock in Solo’s eyes, maybe even of understanding, but there’s no time for that. Illya squares his shoulders, says, “None of us know these mountains well, so running in the dark would only get us lost and captured. The best course of action is to stay here, to fortify this place as best we can. To send word to Waverly, hold out until backup gets here.”

Solo might still be broadcasting confusion rather than professionalism, but he’s getting there. “Sniper on the roof,” he says. 

“Me,” Illya supplies.

“Gunners in the windows down here. Mines?”

Illya shakes his head. “No time to build them,” he says. 

“I already built some.” 

As one, Illya and Solo turn to look at Gaby. There’s a hint of amusement in her eyes underneath the fear, and she says, “Pipe bombs, with remote detonators. There are two under my bed.” She shrugs, half self-conscious, and says, “Engines are complicated. Bombs are easy.” 

There’s a hint of a smile playing around Solo’s lips. “I think I love you.”

Gaby dips a little curtsey, says, “I had to do something today while you two were ignoring each other.”

Illya doesn’t look at Solo. He doesn’t think he can, and he says, “Cowboy, set the mines. I will prepare in here.” 

Solo _does_ look at him, looks at him until Illya can’t ignore him and has to look back, and then Solo smiles at him, smiles a broad, white-toothed American grin and says, “Aye, sir.” 

They get to work. 

Illya empties the safehouse’s weapons stash, equips Gaby with as much as he thinks she can handle as she puts out an emergency distress call to whoever U.N.C.L.E. has stationed nearby, and starts to put together a barrier for the front door. Solo returns inside of five minutes, coat covered in snow, hands covered in soil, and after a brief argument about who gets the Kalashnikov—“Oh, I’m having _this_.” “It is Russian weapon. It is mine.” “Go to hell, Peril, you’ve already got the sniper rifle!”—he helps Illya shove the barricade into place. There’s not a huge amount they can do about the windows, but fortunately there are only two, both in the main room, and Solo and Gaby take one each. Illya clambers up through the skylight and clears enough room in the snow for his long legs, and when he comes back for his weapons, Solo’s waiting. He hands up the rifle with its silencer and scope, then several extra mags, and when his hands are empty he says, “Hey, Peril?”

Illya stops checking over the magazines, peers back down through the skylight. “Cowboy?”

“Afterwards,” Solo says, and there’s a gleam in his eye that Illya doesn’t quite understand but that he thinks might be hope. “You and I are going to have a little talk.” 

“Afterwards,” Illya repeats, almost like a promise, and doesn’t quite smile. “First, make sure that there is an afterwards.” He pauses, and then, quieter, “Take care of Gaby.”

Solo’s expression is solemn. “Take care of yourself, Peril.” 

There’s no time for anything more. 

Illya settles himself on the snowy rooftop, levels his rifle and sights through the scope. The lights are brighter, now, closer, and Illya takes a steadying breath, takes another, because there are more than he expected, far more. If he listens, he can hear whispers, soft and muted, but it’s not loud enough to pick out the language. Something Romance-based, he thinks, but that’s all he got – and all of a sudden he flickers back to the Berlin Hilton, to Solo, naked and willing, and to Alverez with a tie around Illya’s partner’s neck. 

Illya grits his teeth and settles in for war. 

The moment the dark shapes in the trees are within range, Illya starts firing, slow and careful, choosing a target and picking him off with a skilful pull of the trigger. The rifle’s silencer is the best on the market so there’s barely any sound, only a soft pop and then the crunch of knees in snow, and Illya drops at least seven men before anyone notices. When someone _does_ notice, though, shouts arise from the trees, indignant and definitely Italian, and Illya suddenly finds himself looking for someone standing half a head above the rest, someone with blond hair and Illya’s chin.

He catches himself, though, gets back to business. Three more are dead in thirty seconds, and that’s when the gunfire starts in earnest. 

Illya made sure that he was sheltered on the roof, but bullets still go whizzing past into the night, cutting the air with heat and cordite. He doesn’t let it faze him, doesn’t blink, just keeps on aiming and pulling, aiming and pulling, and when the stutter of Solo’s Kalashnikov and the chatter of Gaby’s P-90 start up from down below, it rumbles through his bones like opera. They’re fighting. They’re fighting and they’re together, and there’s nothing that’s going to pull them apart.

But the dark shapes keep coming through the trees. 

Illya’s at the end of his second magazine when Solo blows Gaby’s bombs, and the explosion is enough to set his ears ringing. He doesn’t need his ears to keep shooting, though, so he does until the world rights itself around him, picking off two more and then scrambling to switch out his magazine. It’s not enough, though, none of it, it’s not enough, because before Illya can get back into position there are shapes running through the mangled ground, crouched and hunched, and they’re under the cabin’s eaves before Illya can get them. 

He barks a sharp curse in Russian, then angles back towards the still-open skylight, yells, “They’re coming!” 

Solo’s voice drifts up from below, tight and focused. “We know!”

There’s nothing Illya wants more right now than to drop down through that skylight, to keep his partners safe, to shove them behind him and use his body as a shield – but that’s not the plan. He’s to stay on the roof, to keep sniping, to stop them from encircling the house, and he’s to stay there no matter what happens below. 

Windowglass smashes, and Gaby yells a yell that’s not full of fear, no, it’s a yell that’s practically a roar. 

There are fewer black shapes around the cabin, now, and they’re a lot better at hiding than the others. Illya counts four, maybe five, and he spends the next four minutes as things crash and smash inside picking them off: one goes down to a head shot, two take bullets to the leg and then, when they stumble, to the chest. The final few are trickier, and Illya’s peering into the distance, trying to figure out whether that slender outcropping is a treebranch or a poorly placed arm when he hears the scream from downstairs. 

His blood runs to _ice_. 

That was Gaby, and he knows it without the shout that follows, raw and vulnerable. “Leave her _alone_!” Solo. Of course, Solo. Illya pushes himself back from the edge, gets as close as he can to the skylight without dropping snow through to the inside. He can hear harsh breathing under the chatter of Italian voices, and then: “Put her _down_! She’s not the one you’re after!” 

Definitely Alverez. 

Illya shoves the rifle to one side, fumbles his holster for his pistol. There’s at least one enemy still out in the trees and who knows how many down below so it’s doubtful that the odds are in his favour, but Solo is frantic and Gaby is _silent_ , and there is nothing Illya is willing to accept less than his partners in danger. 

“Get your friend down from the roof, Mr Armstrong,” an accented voice spits, “and I _will_ put her down.” 

Armstrong. Jeremy Armstrong. That was Solo’s cover, that was the name he gave in place of his own. 

Illya knows better than to make the first move. He stays on the roof, still as a statue, finger curled around the trigger, and Solo says, “What friend on the roof? The sniping, that was me. I’m a multitasker. There’s no one here but us.”

Someone that Illya is guessing must be Alverez scoffs. “My men saw three of you at the airfield in Germany,” he says. “And we followed three sets of tracks up here. Now get him down here, or your friend here will have more to worry about than a headwound.”

Headwound. Gaby has a headwound. Illya is running through the possible dangers already: concussion; subdural haematoma; haemorrhaging; brain damage. Nothing good ever comes from headwounds, but Solo’s the one on the ground, Solo’s the one who can make a full assessment of the facts. Illya has no idea how many men there are in there, no idea of the danger. This isn’t his call – and as he lies there, in the snow and the spent casings, he realises that he’s not antsy, that he isn’t already second-guessing Solo’s decision. He trusts him to make the right call.

“Kuryakin?” That’s Solo, stiff and formal. “Teller’s unconscious, with a gun to her head. Come down. Do as he wants.” 

Illya pauses for a second, thinking, then stands up loudly, banging his feet into the cabin’s roof, stepping over to the skylight with heavy feet. He sits down at its edge, dangling his legs through, and as he makes a show of figuring out how to get down, he hides his gun in a pile of dirty snow, only a few fingerwidths from the hole. He drops through, eventually, lands like a cat, and takes a survey of the room as he’s being manhandled and patted down, holster checked, knife unstrapped from his calf.

Six henchmen, plus Alverez. All heavily armed, all intent on their boss. Gaby is crumpled in a corner, hair tied back in a tight ponytail, and there’s blood streaming down her face, dripping from her nose. Illya’s not hugely worried about that, because he knows how fiercely headwounds can bleed – and even as he studies her, she’s starting to stir. That’s good. She won’t be much use, but she’ll be alive. Illya turns his attention to Solo, and, well, that isn’t so good. Solo’s on his knees in front of the fireplace, stripped of his jacket, stripped of his beloved Kalashnikov, and his arms are tied behind his back at an angle that Illya knows from personal experience is highly painful. Probably knots at wrists and elbows, and there’s a henchman on either side, both with guns pointed at his head. Solo’s bloody, too, blood from his nose smearing his lips and chin, blood from what Illya’s guessing was probably a well-aimed bullet staining his white shirt. 

Solo meets Illya’s gaze, just briefly, and there’s defiance in his eyes. 

“On your knees,” an Italian accent says sharply, and Illya’s being kicked in the back of the legs, brought crashing to his knees, arms dragged behind him as awkwardly as Solo’s. He bites back a hiss of pain, and then there’s a hand in his hair, pulling his head back, angling his face upwards – and, well, it’s almost like looking in the mirror.

Surprise shows briefly on Alverez’ face, and he drops his hand like Illya’s skin burned him. “Well,” he says. “You have a good face.” Illya doesn’t answer. He doesn’t think he was meant to. Alverez looks up at Solo. “I see why you keep him around,” he says, voice slick with self-satisfied charm, and then, with no warning, no preparation, he slams the butt of his pistol into Illya’s face. 

Pain rockets through Illya’s skull, blazing bright and hot in his nose, but he doesn’t let the pain show. The KGB taught him that much, and he just spits out the blood from his now-split lip and looks up at Alverez, anger flooded through his eyes. Alverez doesn’t seem to care, just reaches out, runs a thumb through the blood, smears it down Illya’s throat, then grabs his already-broken nose and _twists_. 

Illya hears Solo’s hiss from two metres away. White spots swim behind his eyes for a good thirty seconds, and then Alverez says, “No one can have _my_ face but _me_.”

“You narcissistic son of a bitch,” Solo spits. 

Later, Illya is going to have a conversation with his partner about how he doesn’t need defending, thank you very much, but right now everything hurts and he’s glad for even the briefest of interruptions. His throat is clogging with blood, so he spits again, watches the blood soak into the worn pile of the carpet.

In the corner, Gaby’s eyes flicker open. Illya catches her attention, quick as blinking, gives the faintest shake of his head. _Not yet. Save your strength._ She’s the only one of them that’s not tied up and they need to preserve that, so she has to not draw attention to herself. Gaby seems to get the message, and she doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just shuts her eyes to slits and observes. 

Good. That’s good. 

Alverez prowls back over to Solo, gun now stained with Illya’s blood and spittle. He hooks his fingers under Solo’s chin, drags up his face, says, “Where’s my book?”

Solo’s eyes are hard. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Alverez nods to one of his henchmen, and a heavy kick is delivered to Solo’s right kidney. “I’ll say it again,” Alverez says, all Italian charm, as Solo wheezes into the carpet. “Where’s my book? The book you stole from the safe in my suite while I was asleep?”

“Oh, _that_ book.” Solo pulls himself upright, smiles a brilliant smile which is only faintly ruined by the blood staining his teeth. “I burned it in the fireplace behind me. If you look, maybe you can find a few pages.”

Another kick, another kidney. “Don’t lie to me, Armstrong.”

“Okay, okay,” Solo says. “I admit it. My name isn’t really Armstrong.”

The kick is to the ribs this time, and a sharp crack echoes in through the cabin. “ _The book_.”

“Our handlers have it,” Illya says through gritted teeth, because there is no point in Solo getting himself killed over something he doesn’t know. “He does not know where it is anymore than I do.” 

Alverez studies Illya baldly, and there’s something distinctly unnerving about his own face looking back at him. “Are you lying to me?” he asks. 

“I have no reason to lie,” Illya says. 

Alverez’s gun wavers forward, rests gently against Solo’s forehead. “No reason to try to save the life of your friend?”

Illya doesn’t look at Solo. He doesn’t think he can. “He is not my friend.”

Alverez studies Illya for a moment longer, then says, “Kuryakin, was it? You’re a bad liar. But that means that what you say about my book is probably true.” He turns back to Solo, and this time, he does the kicking himself, straight to the stomach. “I would assume that my book is now in the hands of the CIA,” he says, “but your Russian friend here would seem to confuse matters. So, my next question. Who—” A punch to the face. “—has—” A kick to the side. “—my—” A stamp on the hand. “—book?” A kick to the kidney, for good measure. 

Solo is starting to look decidedly black and blue. He grins up at Alverez, blood dripping from between his teeth. “Someone who will never give it back to you,” he says, and spits phlegm and blood onto his own knees. 

Alverez doesn’t seem particularly flustered, but, then again, Illya supposes, you don’t get to be an internationally renowned arms dealer without a good deal of inner calm. “Violence,” Alverez says, “doesn’t seem to be working.” He runs his fingers through the blood dripping from the freshly-opened cut on Solo’s cheek, says, “Never mind. I have other ways of persuading you, Mr Armstrong.” He looks up at his henchman and says, “Strip him.” 

Solo, naked and bent over a desk, tie around his neck, arms trembling under his own weight. Illya knows where this is going without having to be told, and he surges forward, ripping at the ties around his wrists. There are three men around him in an instant, and before he can do anything he’s on his stomach on the ground, two of them on top of him, snarling and writhing but _useless_.

Alverez looks at him, disinterested. “Wait your turn.”

Solo’s shirt is ripped away and his trousers soon follow, trodden underfoot by Alverez’ thugs. His skin is pockmarked and imperfect, old scars side-by-side with new cuts and bruises, and Alverez says, “Put him on the sofa. I don’t want to get my knees dirty.”

Under half of the guards in the room, Illya _growls_. It’s guttural, almost animalistic, and he can feel the rage building, building. 

Solo catches his eye, offers a quirk of a smile. It’s not happy, far from it, no, it’s resigned, accepting. It says, _Don’t fight, just let it happen._

Illya is not about to let this happen. He’s shoving up, against the men and the bonds, and he can feel the ties snapping around his wrists, falling away like dry straw, but the combined weight of three men is too much for even him and he can’t, he _can’t_. Alverez has one hand in Solo’s hair and Solo’s belt in the other, and he brings that belt down across Solo’s naked skin, brings it down with a crack and a smack and a sudden spurt of blood and—

A gunshot snaps loud into the cabin, and all of a sudden there’s a bullet hole between Alverez’ eyes. 

Red mist descends over Illya’s vision. 

Everything is utter chaos for a while after that, and Illya doesn’t really remember most of it. He remembers snapshots, fragments—his hands around a man’s throat, snapping, squeezing; lurching up and grabbing for the pistol hidden in the snow above his head—but most of all he remembers Gaby, bloody in the corner, with a stolen gun in her hands, aiming and squeezing, aiming and squeezing, calm and cool and professional. 

When Waverly’s men come crashing through the door six minutes later, Illya’s hands are just starting to stop shaking and Solo’s crouched over Gaby, probing the wound in her head with gentle fingers. He’s still naked, but when the men in black ski masks and black boots come pouring into the bloody, battered cabin, into the morass of dead men and blood, he squeezes Gaby’s hand, stands, and says, “Gentlemen. Glad you could join us.” 

Illya isn't sure whether to punch him or kiss him.


	3. Chapter 3

Waverly’s men handle the clean-up. 

Illya just sits with Gaby on the sofa and watches them drag the bodies away. Gaby’s exhausted, Illya can tell from the dark bruises under her eyes, but she still sits ramrod straight, hands twisted in her lap, lips pressed tight together. Illya’s not entirely surprised: she’s learned well and learned quickly these past few months, but that doesn’t mean that killing for the first time is any easier. 

He nudges closer, bumps their shoulders. “You okay?”

Gaby doesn’t quite look at him. “Yes,” she says quickly, and then, after a pause, “No. I think I will be?”

Illya chuckles, reaches out, tugs her to him, an arm around her shoulders. “You will be,” he states, firmer. “You saved us, me and Solo. You will be more than fine.”

Gaby looks at him, then, and her eyes are bright despite the tiredness. “You would have figured something out,” she says, disbelieving, doubting.

Illya thinks about the roughness of the carpet under his cheek and the resigned smile on Solo’s lips. “Not in time,” he says. “Not before—” He breaks off, can’t bring himself to continue, because what that _monster_ was going to do was blasphemous, sacrilege, and Illya hasn’t quite come to terms with the fact that he could do practically nothing to stop it.

Gaby’s hand closes over his, warm and small. “Solo’s fine,” she says. “Solo’s okay.” She pauses, and then says, “And I think he understands you, now.” 

Illya squints at her. “Understands me?”

There’s a smile playing at the corner of Gaby’s lips. “Understands why you’ve been so awkward,” she clarifies, and the look in her eyes tells Illya that she knows exactly what’s been going through his head these past few days. 

Illya feels his cheeks flush red. “You knew,” he says bluntly. 

“Probably before you did,” Gaby answers, and tucks herself deeper into his embrace. “I’ve never seen two people bicker with such _passion_ before.”

If it’s possible, Illya’s going even redder. “I do not have passion,” he fumbles.

Gaby laughs quietly, squeezes his hand. “Of course you don’t,” she says, and leaves it at that. 

They don’t talk any more than that, but that’s because they don’t need to. 

Solo emerges from his bedroom, after a while, wearing a change of clothes and a turtleneck that disguises the ring of bruises around his throat, and he comes to stand with them. His face is a growing mess of bruises and cuts, and he says, “There’s a plane waiting to get us out of here at the airfield. Colonel Simmons is prepared to take us there if we’re up for the walk.”

It’s a question more for Gaby than him, Illya knows, but Solo holds his gaze just a moment longer than he has to.

“I’m ready to get out of here,” Gaby says, and stands. The gash in her head has been cleaned and stitched, and the field medic is pretty sure it’s just a cut, no concussion. Illya was doubtful until he saw the way she moved, because she’s lost none of her grace, her elegance, and so he stands with her, nods to Solo. 

Solo’s lips quirk in a tired smile. “I’ll let the Colonel know.” 

The trek down from the cabin takes decidedly less time than it took to get there, and every step further away from the bloodbath lightens the weight on Illya’s shoulders just a little more. There’s no chatter, no camaraderie, just the three of them walking in tight formation, Gaby in the middle, the starlight glinting off the dark bruise that’s blooming on Solo’s forehead.

Illya’s choosing not to think about his own face. 

The plane is in the air within four minutes of them boarding, and Gaby’s asleep on Solo’s shoulder within six. Illya finds a blanket and pillow while Solo gets her comfortable on a row of seats, and when she’s quietly snoring in the corner, they sit opposite each other, knees knocking, bodies loose and— _finally_ ¬—relaxed. 

They’ve been in the air for an hour when Solo finally speaks. “You’re a mess, Peril.”

Illya blinks slowly, says, “You’re not exactly a work of art yourself, Cowboy.” 

Solo shrugs, but doesn’t bother to hide the wince that the movement generates. “Just a few bruises,” he says. “Your nose, however, I’m pretty sure is broken in at least three places.”

“Is nothing,” Illya says. “Cosmetic.” 

Solo’s forehead wrinkles. “It’ll change your face,” he says. “I’m not sure I want your face to change.”

Illya shifts in his seat, feels the itch of his shirt against his back. “Was change not the point?” he asks. “Alverez did not want me to look like him anymore. It seems he got his wish.” 

Solo arches an eyebrow. “So you’re just going to let that slide?” he asks, sharper. “You’re just going to let him disfigure you?” 

“Yes,” Illya snaps. “Because I do not want to look like _him_ as much as he does not want to look like _me_.” There’s a venom in his voice that he didn’t expect, a bitterness and a throb of pain, because he has spent his life and his career dealing with very bad people but this wasn’t _his_ life. This was Solo, bent over a desk, naked and vulnerable and hurting – and there’s nothing Illya wants less than for the rest of his life for Solo to look at him and see that _bastard_. 

Illya’s hands are shaking. He’s not sure when it started. 

“Peril.” Solo’s voice is calm, smooth, and he’s leaning forward, reaching out, one hand on Illya’s knee. “Hey, Peril. Look at me.” Illya does, looks at the bruises and the cuts, the split lip and the blood in the hair, and Solo says, “You’re not him. You could never be him.” 

Illya snarls, shakes his head wordlessly.

“ _Hey_ ,” Solo all-but snaps. His eyes are earnest, pleading. “Illya, no. He was scum, filthy, awful, scum of the earth, and he deserved to suffer much more than he did. You? You are the best man I have ever met.”

Illya’s mouth goes dry. “Do not flatter,” he growls. “I am nothing special.”

Solo snorts. “Nothing special?” he asks, disbelieving. “You’re loyal as a goddamn Labrador and the best fighter I’ve tried my hand again. A damn crack shot, too, a _brilliant_ agent, and yet when it’s necessary, you are so gentle with Gaby.” 

Illya licks his lips, says, “Not your typical Russian.”

Surprise shows in Solo’s eyes, and he peers at Illya accusingly. “You were listening at the door.”

“Not on purpose,” Illya says. “And not for long. But I heard – enough.” There’s a heaviness in his gut, now. They’re standing on the edge. 

“Of course you did,” Solo murmurs. He slips his hand from Illya’s knee, sits back in his chair, and something flickers in his eyes, something full of darkness and self-doubt. He says, quieter now, “And when I saw you in Alverez’ suite, back in Berlin, when I was – with him, it made me remember how much better you are than me. How you chose this life, while I was forced into it.” His lips twist. “You heard what I said about Sanders?”

Illya figures that rage probably isn’t the best emotion to express right now, so he says, “Yes.”

Solo’s eyes are dark. “That’s the response I expect from a good intelligence agent,” he says. “That’s the response I’ve always got. I didn’t expect anything different from you.” He drops Illya’s gaze, looks out the window at the blackness of the night. “I underestimated you,” he says, finally. “For that, I’m sorry.” 

“No need to apologise,” Illya says throatily. “I acted like fool. I did not understand myself. I was confused. I have not—” He cuts himself off, thinks, reconsiders. “It is not encouraged, in KGB,” he says, heart thudding louder in his chest, “to feel attraction to your partner. It is dangerous. Bad idea. So I was not prepared for how it – felt. To see you like that.” 

There’s a light growing in Solo’s eyes. “Naked?” he offers. 

“Vulnerable,” Illya counters. He indicates Solo’s throat, says, “He could have choked you very easily, and then you would be gone. Dead. And that would be unacceptable.” 

“Why, Peril,” Solo says, voice hoarse, on the verge of husky. “You _do_ care.” 

Illya lets his lips twitch into a smile. “More than you know, Cowboy,” he says, for the second time. 

For a long moment, they sit there in silence, knees pressed together, just watching each other. Outside, the darkness of night is starting to give way to the brightness of the sun rising over the horizon, and Illya watches the changing light play across Solo’s battered skin, across the dried blood that’s still caught in his day-old stubble, across the bruise on his forehead, the curl of his hair. He’s alive. They’re _both_ alive, and Illya feels his lips twist into a smile, ignores the pull that puts on his own beaten face, and says, “So, is this that ‘little talk’ you promised me?”

“I suppose it is,” Solo answers. He leans forward, elbows propped on his knees, and says, “For the sake of full disclosure, Peril, you should probably know that I find you _very_ attractive.” 

Illya mirrors the motion, leans closer, closer, and they are so, so close. “That is very interesting,” he says, as serious as he can manage. “I will have to report this to Moscow.” 

Solo snorts. “You do that,” he says. “But can I just do one thing first?”

Illya’s heart is so light. “That depends.”

“On what?” Solo asks, smile stretching wider.

“On what that one thing is,” Illya answers.

“A kiss?”

Illya licks his lips purposefully, slowly, and watches as Solo’s attention darts to the movement. Solo’s pupils are wide and black, his cheeks are flushed, and Illya doesn’t need to have already seen those signs to know what they mean. “I suppose,” he says, “that Moscow can wait a while.” 

Solo’s grin is worth all the hurt in the world.

It’s not the best kiss Illya’s ever had. Solo’s lips are dry from the Alpine cold, his mouth still tastes faintly of blood, and the angle is too strained for it to be anything more than fairly chaste. Then there’s the fact that Illya’s nose is swollen and unbearably tender so every time Solo moves even a little pain goes lancing through Illya’s face – but none of that’s the point. The point is that when Solo leans back again, smile on his lips like—what is the Western expression?—like the cat that got the cream, Illya knows that this is only the beginning. 

“You know,” Solo says conversationally, “I think that the broken nose might actually suit you better. Makes you more rugged, earthy.”

Illya rolls his eyes and settles back in his seat. “Shut up, Cowboy. I want to sleep.” 

Solo shuts up, and the last thing Illya sees before the exhaustion finally catches up with him is the softness of his more-than-partner’s smile.

_finis_


End file.
